


The saints go marching in.

by skinnylittlered



Category: British Actor RPF, Real Person Fiction, Tom Hiddleston - Fandom, hiddlestoners
Genre: Blow Jobs, Cunnilingus, Erotica, F/M, High Heels, M/M, Morning After, One Night Stands, Shameless Smut, Smut, Threesome, Threesome - F/M/M, Walk Of Shame
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-09
Updated: 2015-10-09
Packaged: 2018-04-25 15:46:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4966858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skinnylittlered/pseuds/skinnylittlered
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>OFC gets herself some serious dick.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The saints go marching in.

There’s nothing quite like good dick to turn your shitty day around entirely.

The situation that I find myself currently caught in would render most rather unable to sustain eloquent speech, not me, however, as my experience with affairs such as these extends greatly into the sphere of my not being in the slightest affected by my given circumstances, but, for fear of further inflating the already astronomical egos of the two men seeing to it that I may not walk out of this happening with any resemblance of decency as much as stumbling my way out of their hotel room, preferably half attired, heels in hand and lipstick anywhere but on my lips – most call it the Walk of Shame, I like to think of it as of a you-wish-you-got-such-good-cock-as-I-did march –, I shall contain my thoughts to the safe perimeter of inner monologue, and continue praising both the glorious prominence that the penis consists of, and the men that know exactly how to use it.

I am now gagging on one of my companions, slurping at the loose spit that lubricates his flesh as I suck him in long, languid motions, forcing the tip into my ever unwelcoming throat – it is so that, no matter how much exercise I acquire in this practice, my body flat out refuses to familiarise itself with the customs of executing undertakings that involve allowing penetration of any kind without much difficulty –, tongue laid as flatly and as still as I can keep it, enjoying the unwitting spasms of the muscles in his legs, trying to keep him unmoving in the delicious ecstasy that’s got him groaning the most delightfully sexy sounds that it has been ever been given that I hear, loud enough to drown out the unladylike noises I, myself, am producing as I’m enthusiastically lapping at him, trying to keep myself focused as the other, insatiable bastard that he is, is all but feasting on my dripping cunt. Certainly not as good as him pounding into me, but, I must say, he is rather talented when it comes to orally servicing a woman, and he’s got me all trembling and left a bit disrupted – it’s hard to concentrate on such a task as satisfyingly blowing a dude when there’s another being more meticulous about the well-being of my ladybits than my gynaecologist has ever been. And he takes his sweet time about it, too; what a marvellous specimen! A man who makes a main course out of eating pussy rather than just using it as a means of getting his woman all warmed up and open for him is a rare, superiorly bred exhibit, worthy of keeping close for late night – or early morning – calls. All the more when he displays such proficiency of skill as the one occupying himself with my read end is.

He’s the actor – tall, blue-eyed and terribly British. Top class at his craft, schooled at England’s best.

He kissed me for a long time, just lips on lips, chaste and noninvasive, cradling my body as if it were fine china, as if it hadn’t been roughened up so many times before, as if it weren’t to be one more time. His large hands, long dexterous fingers roamed me with precise delicacy, no tentativeness in his touch, for it was clear the way around the female body presented little of an enigma to him, nurturing the fevered exaltation roiling beneath my skin, the effervescent frustration so bothersome it made me physically sick in my vigil for fulfilment. He paid little attention to my wantonly gestures, talking his time in teasing my fervour, cupping my breasts, weighing them, acclimatising himself with the responses his attentions elicited from me, immediate and obedient, the meat on my bones trembling in its misery, longing for more than what was provided.  He cooed as I achingly moaned, but did not hasten, instead urging me to perform at the best of my ability when the other – an American, long-time friend of his – pushed himself into my mouth choking my pitiful cries, too wide for my jaws to fully accommodate. It was when he became visibly pleased with my performance that the other deigned it appropriate to reward my arguably virtuous patience. He pinned my thighs down as his fingers strode on my swollen labia, hot and throbbing, before spreading me wide with his thumbs, a low appreciative groan reverberating from somewhere low in his throat as he looked at me, taking the pink curves of my womanhood in, outlining it with the tip of his tongue, tasting its spilling juices.

And, my god, I am close to spasmodic, unable to regain the albeit not much, but most certainly welcome control I would usually maintain when stimulated in such a satisfactory, yet still incomplete, way.

Until he shoves himself inside me, that is, no precedent signs of his intention, the engorged fullness of him sliding into the sticky soppiness of my cunt, grinding mercilessly against each and every one of my overdriving nerve endings, back and forth, oversaturating and prompting need for more all the same time. His manicured fingernails, although tidily filed are scratching me as his fingers dig deep enough into my hips to cause some serious bruising for which I will probably hate him in the morning, but, realising that amidst the tiring volumes of physical pleasure I am being administered right now, it’s undoubtedly what’s keeping me grounded and going, enough to respond to the impulses shooting to my brain in favour of just going completely limp and lifeless between the two males fucking me.

“Come on, you whore, haven’t you had enough? Fucking come already!”

And, although I most certainly have not, I do, I come with flying colours, in a flurry of too much and not nearly enough, satisfied but willing for more, short before they empty themselves, too, one on my face and the other on my ass, forgetting I am here as soon as they do.

 

***

 

Last night’s dress as worn the morning after is hardly askew, if only looking a bit lived in. I carry a comb with me at all times, so my hair sits in place, even if a bit messier than I normally prefer to style it. There are few women who don’t bring an in case of emergency make-up kit with them when going out; I am not one of them. I know better – their emergency is my routine. I could’ve showered the sex smell away, but I didn’t, I never do, and as people stare at me through the streets, some laughingly, others disapproving, but most appreciative of the way the black fabric doesn’t cover the most part of my breasts and thighs, I laugh to myself, remembering the incredulous faces of my lovers as I walked out of the hotel room, six-inch pumps right where they belong – on my feet, so well put together with such sparse time and resources.

It’s going to take more than a good shag to throw me off balance.

**Author's Note:**

> Guess who’s back.
> 
> School started, and that threw me off balance there for a little bit, but I’m working on focusing on my studies and my hobbies without one interfering with the other too much.
> 
> No worries, Tom’s kept you guys busy for me. I mailed him an Oreo for that.
> 
> Moar Oreos go to the people who provided feedback on The Importance *bows*
> 
> Moar Oreos go to the rest of my readers.
> 
> Oreos for everybody :)
> 
> Not beta-ed. Shoot me in the face.
> 
> Thank you for reading, lovelies, and you stay golden! *Oreos fly out like confetti*


End file.
